If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,
Green pasture or gray grief;
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune,
With double sound and single
Delight our lips would mingle,
With kisses glad as birds are
That get sweet rain at noon;
If I were what the words are,
And love were like the tune.
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling
And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow,
And I were page to joy.
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,
We'd throw with leaves for hours
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady
And night were bright like day;
If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.
Boston, Allston- Spring of 1974..... Dian, (Huntress of the Moon and fatal succubus) How my life was ruined beyond repair, after being bewitched by you- and your faithless, clinging kisses. I hope your FBI Boyfriend received a bullet through his most unworthy head, and you were left- as barren as the arctic sea....I often wondered after I left: whether you enjoyed yourself; performing upon that truck-driving urchin who slouched around your apartment? ? ? I will see you in.....
One of the most beautiful poems I have ever read. And yet very unknown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How does it feel, after all these years, and many a Boston Spring gone by; To have broken my heart, irrevocably, now and always- and my life lost in dreaming forevermore...Oh Huntress of Men's Hearts and the inconstant Moon!